ile in
_Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_. With what fervour the poet feels her neglect!
with what eagerness he defends her from the animadversions of the friend
who would have dissolved the spell!

The poet was doomed to endure more poignant sorrows than slights.
Mademoiselle had the art of persuading Moliere that he was only his own
"cocu imaginaire;" but these domestic embarrassments multiplied.
Mademoiselle, reckless of the distinguished name she bore, while she
gratified her personal vanity by a lavish expenditure, practised that
artful coquetry which attracted a crowd of loungers. Moliere found no
repose in his own house, and retreated to a country-house, where, however,
his restless jealousy often drove him back to scenes which he trembled to
witness. At length came the last argument of outraged matrimony--he
threatened confinement. To prevent a public rupture, Moliere consented to
live under the same roof, and only to meet at the theatre. Weak only in
love, however divided from his wife, Moliere remained her perpetual lover.
He said, in confidence, "I am born with every disposition to tenderness.
When I married, she was too young to betray any evil inclinations. My
studies were devoted to her, but I soon discovered her indifference. I
ascribed it to her temper; her foolish passion for Count Guiche made too
much noise to leave me even this apparent tranquillity. I resolved to live
with her as an honourable man, whose reputation does not depend on the bad
conduct of his wife. My kindness has not changed her, but my compassion
has increased. Those who have not experienced these delicate emotions have
never truly loved. In her absence her image is before me; in her presence,
I am deprived of all reflection; I have no longer eyes for her defects; I
only view her amiable. Is not this the last extreme of folly? And are you
not surprised that I, reasoning as I do, am only sensible of the weakness
which I cannot throw off?"

Few men of genius have left in their writings deeper impressions of their
personal feelings than Moliere. With strong passions in a feeble frame, he
had duped his imagination that, like another Pygmalion, he would create a
woman by his own art. In silence and agony he tasted the bitter fruits of
the disordered habits of the life of a comedian, a manager, and a poet.
His income was splendid; but he himself was a stranger to dissipation. He
was a domestic man, of a pensive and even melancholy temperament. Sile